


Red and Red and Red

by And_all_the_other_buns



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Armand's usual issues, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Drinking blood from a dick, M/M, Marius' usual bullshit, Porn With Plot, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, because thats what this fandom does, chubby armand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/And_all_the_other_buns/pseuds/And_all_the_other_buns
Summary: "Let me draw you."A simple question from Armand to Marius becomes a conduit for bitter accusations and worship, because the only way Armand knows how to work through his issues is with scathing words and violence.
Relationships: Armand/Marius de Romanus
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29





	Red and Red and Red

**Author's Note:**

> There are many versions of most stories in Mythology, and I'm merely using one. It's entirely possible you've heard a different version of the story.
> 
> References to mortal Armand and by that extent references to underage sex. Leave it in fiction and don't get a middle aged vampiric sugar daddy if you're still getting a report card and all that, blah blah.

"Let me draw you."

Marius looked up from his own work, a scene of mythology, still a favorite subject of his, one that even in his centuries devoted to the art he had not tired of yet. Too many stories, too many cultures and ideas for even this child of the millennium to exhaust. On this canvas lay the deep, smoky grays of Hades' throne room, a grim but glittering palace, harsh and haggard and mesmerizing like the inside of a geode.

"...draw me?" He asked of Armand, weighing this request first with confusion and then with a teasing, cautious skepticism. "Child of mine when did you last lay pigment to paper?"

"Temperas? Oils? 521 years," he answered quickly from his spot by the radiator. Marius' studio was cold, lined with concrete and brick and great bare windows, and while the cold posed them no danger it was still uncomfortable. "Just charcoal, graphite, I've picked up a bit here and there since the 80s."

"Oh, have you a portfolio full of Daniel's nudes then?" He asked, flickering his eyes from his fledgling to his canvas, laying out a base of fiery orange to become Persephone, the radiant light of the underworld.

"Do you?" Armand countered.

"Not nudes, no, Daniel didn't wish to sit for me in such an intimate pose, but you've seen the portraits I've done."

Armand had. Lovingly crafted and raw, Armand hated the early one's, showing too easily the pain and madness of his darling child. It was only the later work he admired, when there was life in his eyes again.

"Let me draw you," he pressed again, and Marius lowered his brush.

"...alright, then. But I better not see myself in the Byzantine style. I don't care to look like an Orthodox icon."

"How about a Catholic prayer card?" He offered instead. "St. Sebastian always looks alluring."

"Of course you say so for the penchant of nudity in those works and not for the arrows struck through his torso?"

"Sure."

Marius only shook his head, but finally seemed to agree, rising to clean out his brushes from a can of turpentine. The whole place smelled of it, and of linseed oil and charcoal dust and the wood from fresh canvas backing. Almost familiar, almost like Venice, but harsher and more astringent, chemicals overtaking even this process of creation.

Armand scampered, delighted by having his way, and drew from slats in the wall a large drawing pad, along with whatever he could pull from the supply drawers. Charcoal sticks, an Xacto blade, willow bark, ebony pencils, gum erasers and vinyl ones and one that mashed itself like clay in his hand.

"And how do you want me, little Master?" And he was so glad Marius was deaf to his inner voice, lest he hear both "on top of me," and "off a bridge" as viable options 

"Here," he indicated softly, pulling a low backed padded chair over towards Marius' work space. "The light is good here, and I want your canvas in the background."

"It's nowhere near finished," said Marius hesitantly, but he had the seat all the same, sighing as he took the weight off his feet. It was a habit Armand remembered even from his own mortal days, back when he thought his Master a magician rather than the undead. Truly Marius had no stress or pains as he moved, but he seemed to enjoy a soft place to relax as well as anyone.

And Armand was glad again for their lack of connection, because all that flowed through his mind right now was velvet bed hangings and embroidered pillows and endless hours wrought with pleasure in his master's hands 

Red and red and red-

Armand perched on a spinning stool, hooking the heels of his ankle boots onto the ring around the center pole. A drawing slant would be steadier in theory, but for someone of his balance and steadfast hold it would only get in the way. He held his sketch pad upon a bended knee, laying out his supplies on the table next to him. As immaculate as Master kept his clothes and hair and private rooms, his studio was as stained and splattered as any artists. Layers of oil stained the scrubbed wood, flecks hitting the marble counters by the sink. The wooden floor was bleached in several points by dripping chemicals and cleaners. Armand loved it. Every smear of oil or loose scattering of pencil shavings marked the room like freckles upon sunkissed skin. Like the fine lines that still marked themselves as age around Marius' eyes and the corners of his mouth.

"...scoot forward a little," Armand instructed and waited for Marius to obey. "Arm a little more tucked in...right. now look at me."

And his stomach jolted as Master's brilliant blue eyes met his own. God, how could he not have fallen in love the moment he saw him?

Stupid child.

Armand flicked his gaze from his cream paper up to his subject, lean and languid, wearing a knit shirt at least 10 years old, a veritable vintage piece considering Armand's own wardrobe, but it's what Marius worked in; he still had the habit of cleaning his brushes on his clothes, and indeed this deep green top had a rainbow around the hen.

Quick lines first, vague strokes to block in Master's posture, the curve of the chair, the plane of stomach to hip to casually extended leg rendered in soft grey charcoal.

"...it's good to see you work again, Amadeo," master spoke softly, his eyes still trained forward on his fledgling. And Armand should scold him, he always wanted to when he used that old name, but it seemed like such an effort.

"I scarcely worked when you had me," he pointed out, keeping his wrist loose to trace down the side of Master's face as soft and loving as his own hands used to. "Mixing paints mostly, background colors. Hardly a real bit of work."

"I remember your icons, child. I saw the painting your mother tried to hand to you, I've seen them through your own memories." When Armand said nothing, filling the silence only with the scrape of charcoal, Marius pressed on. "A few survive, you know. In a Cathedral in St. Petersburg."

"We should burn them."

"That ashamed of your Orthodox phase?"

"Ashamed doesn't begin to cover it." He picked up the small blade, sharpening the dulling end to his charcoal, not caring where the dust landed. It didn't matter, he would just add his own stains to the room. "The idea of children kneeling down to say their prayers, to venerate before what I made? If there is such a thing as sin, that's it, and I am guilty. Nothing good comes from suffering-"

"Nothing good can come from the privation of little children," finished Marius, and Armand met his eyes over the top of his sketchbook.

"...right." The background then, gauging the negative space between the canvas and the windows. "Something like that I suppose. I don't like thinking of someone else being drug into that hell like I was, without anyone to save them."

"I didn't save you from the monastary, Amadeo. I bought you out of sexual slavery."

"What's the difference?" Armand wanted to know, letting the bitterness color his voice with a wicked smile. "It's still someone telling you your body isn't yours, isn't it? Be it Gods or whatever drunk nobleman can pay a few pieces for a turn. At least you kept me warm and fed and safe."

Safe. Well, more or less. 500 years later and Armand could still remember the burn of his wounds, the scorching fever and bitter sickness that plagued his dying body. But that part wasn't Master's fault-

"Amadeo...I wanted everything good for you-"

"Sit still," Armand ordered cooly, and waited for Marius to slip back into place, his expression guarded and cautious. That was fine; Armand didn't need his face to be perfect. Hours and hours spent drowning in Master's kisses, languishing under loving eyes as pale lips read him poetry and promised forever. Centuries in mourning, dreams of rescue, he knew Master's face better than his own.

He worked in silence for a few moments, trying with each glance up to not meet Master's gaze, but such was impossible. He was drawn to Master, he always was, he always would be, and he could feel those eyes locked on him as though they burned.

"So why Hades and Persephone? Or would the Roman in you prefer Pluto and Prosepina?"

"Same story, different names," Marius said calmly, moving only his lips as he spoke. "I like the old myths, you know that. Could never shake the paganism I suppose."

"Do you still believe?" 

"Do you?"

A pause in his sketch, Armand's grip tightening on his pencil. 

Seeming to realize he was about to incur the wrath of the coven master, Marius flashed an almost nervous smile and backtracked.

"It's a myth I can appreciate, Amadeo. You know the story?"

Armand wondered if this was a test. The boys at the Palazzo had been read Homer, Virgil, they knew the myths from Greece to Messopotamia to Canaan to the wintry Norse world's. In bed, exhausted from pleasure, Armand had been lulled to sleep with stories of Eros and Psyche…

"Hades rarely left the underworld, but he saw Persephone playing in the fields and knew he must have her for himself," he began, changing his charcoal for a more precise graphite, a smooth 4B. "So he went to his brother Zeus to ask for her hand. And he granted it, so-"

"So Hades took her from the fields, and spirited her away to the underworld," Marius finished.

Armand nodded, smoothing over the delicate falls of Master's pale waves as they crested over his shoulders.

"The Greeks feared Hades," he said with a steadfast voice, refusing to shake. "They wouldn't say his name. They called him the wealthy one, the unseen one. They would pound their fists to the dirt for his attention but his name was frightening. And then there was Persephone, kept at his side."

Marius was good at sitting for a portrait. Of course any of their kind should be, capable of staying absolutely immobile for hours, but Armand couldn't picture the likes of Lestat actually accomplishing the task well. But Master had an endless font of patience when he decided it.

"...and what of the goddess Persephone then?" Marius wanted to know. "Did she fear the king of the dead?"

"Never." Master has barely finished his question before Armand answered, his whisper so soft as to be inaudible to anyone but a vampire. "Never fearful. But she was lost. She missed her mother, she missed her home...but Hades is not so unkind a husband as people think."

"Legends written by mortals who fear death," Marius pondered lightly, "are bound to cast death as the villain."

"...there were those who wanted Persephone back, of course," said Armand as he crosshatched in the worn texture of Master's courderoy pants, "those who would fight for her. But Hades was a clever god, and he fed Persephone from his own gardens, liquid rubies, red and red and red-"

"To keep her at his side, forever, even if time and again stole her away."

For just a moment, Armand forgot himself, and let his eyes settle on his Master's, finding his stare to be even and intense and startling. Ice blue eyes, like the lakes of Russia frozen in the winter. Half forgotten images, a russet haired child dressed in tattered furs, nearly going through the ice, a woman holding him by a fire, pregnant with another child likely to not survive till spring. Her only living son, her miracle-

How it seemed like myths of his own.

Sure he was blushing despite not having fed, Armand focused back to his picture, a sharpened pencil finally beginning on the eyes, those sharp, handsome, painful eyes.

"Always at his side," he agreed with a whispering breath, barely distinguishable from the scratch of graphite to paper. 

Armand tried to put his attention to his work, all of it, but one moment to another his mind whirled away, though it never went far. It never strayed far from Master. Warm Venice nights, contended with wine and cherries and blood kisses, red and red and red, scarlet bed hangings and plush rose sheets and the claret velvet of Master's cloak, wrapped around Amadeo's sturdy frame after they made love. Well. Their version of it, which was more satisfying than any night Amadeo had at the brothels. Icey fingers at his throat, against soft lips, against the hardness between his legs, coaxing out more sounds and cries and desperate pleas, though he never knew if he begged for more or for it to stop. Fingers, well oiled, curling inside him, swallowing his pitiful cries with his mouth, soothing him through his end with kisses and whispers and praise-

/Scratchscratchacratch/ went his pencils on the page, and he hoped it was enough to drown out his riotous heartbeat. As though the ancient one couldn't hear every dram of blood in his veins.

"...do you think she hated it, Amadeo? To be drawn back to the underworld year after year?"

"These stories were told by men who believed women to be dim witted and eternally flawed. But she was a goddess, a daughter of Zeus. Hades played no trick on her, she knew what she wanted."

"And what did she want?" Master's voice was a caress, smooth as the oils he used on his canvas.

"Eternity."

"She is a goddess, eternity was already hers."

"Eternity on Olympus was no life compared to what she could have in the underworld." As his voice grew more firm and impassioned, his hand grew more erratic, and he knew the papers beneath would carry the echo of these lines, the scars. "Eternity as Persephone, under the rule of her father God, or eternity as royalty among the dead? Hardly sounds a difficult choice. Would take a fool to be unwilling to trade the sunlight for such an unending flame."

Red and red and red.

"...and what of this royal one now, then? It's winter. Has she returned to her husband with a grateful heart?"

"That depends," Armand replied with a lightness betrayed heavily by the grit of his teeth, fangs flashing in the studio lights, "has the king made for her a place in his palace, in his bed? Or has he been too busy in his devotion to Minthe to even remember his bride?"

Oh there it was, there was the sting, and the cherub grinned deliciously to himself, full lips curled over his bite.

"...I know you harbor no jealousy to Pandora," Marius began with a tension to his pose. "And your Daniel is your whole world, so I can only imagine the nymph of this story is our Lestat."

How his heart clenched at the name, filled with such a painful whirl of bitterness and disgust and devotion and adoration and hatred and-

"Envy is a sin, Amadeo."

"I don't believe in sin," he replied, sharpening his pencil hard enough he broke the lead. "But I do still believe in a living Lord. He has been absent for some time though, when before he so readily answered my prayers."

And the pits of Tartarus might as well have broken out between them for how stifling the room became, how obvious the distance between them, and it took Marius some time to find his voice again.

"I love Lestat, Amadeo, but you know there has never been one on my life I love as I love you."

"Funny way to show it, Master. Tell me, why is it when Lestat wakes the queen you simply run him off with a scolding, but I cause a little stir in the council and you drag me from the room to whip me?"

"I hold you to higher standards, Amadeo. Lestat is a brilliant bulb with spotty wiring."

"Nice was to say dumb bitch," Armand muttered, even as his breath caught over an image of his princes' smile. "So if I start acting like I don't know any better will you sit me in time out too?"

"Don't pretend you never got yourself worked up when I took my hand across your ass, boy," Marius warned, and though he still sat in pose, Armand's eyes could pick up every coil of muscle and twitch to his face.

"And who raised me to be such a way, sweet Master?"

And when Marius finally spoke again, it was nearly enough for Armand to regret his attitude. Nearly.

"So do you regret the fruit I fed you, my Persephone? Do you miss the sunshine in the fields?"

"I don't regret a moment of Venice, Master, but there are lifetimes between us and those years."

And the true answer hung on Master's lips, the word formed but left without a sound.

Paris.

Always Paris. Armand watched him with cold eyes, not breaking away from Master's own, just daring him to spit out his usual excuses, his bullshit, his egotistical explanations that tried to clear himself of all guilt. But nothing, nothing -!

"Nothing will ever undo Paris."

In legends, their kind could be killed by a stake through the heart. Armand was quite glad for that just being a story, since he couldn't be sure this sudden pain was not truly physical.

"No, Master. Nothing will ever undo Paris. I could live long enough to resemble the queen mother, and still I will remember Paris. What is 3 years of bliss in Venice when I spent three centuries in hell? Even counting my human years, Master, that's the majority of my life spent cold and filthy and frightened. And alone."

Marius did not speak, and honestly it was probably for the best, Armand thought. Was there anything he could say to his fledgling that wouldn't be met with a fight? He doubted it. Paris was as immortal as their own blood.

Armand focused on his drawing, the shadows beneath Master's sharp cheeks, the small bump at the top of his nose, the few stray blond hairs that fell over his brow. So awfully, dreadfully, painfully handsome, he thought, his heart pounding faster again. He was sure, always sure that Master could see into his soul, even after their blood connection was made. He surely knew the spell he held over his child, even now, forever, as immortal as Paris-

"...it's been such a long summer, Master. Blisteringly hot and the sun a torture, the ground parched. Persephone longs for snow each year, I'm sure. Each feels like the first again- I told you to hold still!"

Indeed, rather than a little twitch to his posture or a hand out of place, Marius stood in one smooth notion, crossing the few strides between them before Armand could further protest. Mouth agape with outrage, Armand could only let out an offended gasp as Marius took the sketchbook from his hand and laid it on the nearby countertop without even looking at the artwork.

"You're a terribly disobedient subject," Armand accused crossly, and the smile playing upon Master's lips was enough to have him shaking.

"I learned from the best, Amadeo. How many sessions did I have you sit for me only for you to end up stroking yourself off without my encouragement?"

Armand knew his face was coloring, he could feel it across his cheeks, but he held Master's gaze unapologetically.

"What else does someone expect from a sixteen year old boy in the company of his lover?"

That word, that beautiful and intimate bell of a word, shimmered between them, light reflecting off a prism, so tantalizing and yet so seemingly unreachable. He took several shaking breaths to try and calm himself, still his heart, but it was just not working. Not with Marius standing tall and broad above him, not with the hunger starting to grow in his eyes.

Armand jumped just a bit when Master's hand reached forward, ghosting over his round cheek so softly he barely felt it, stroking from eye to chin.

"Amadeo," he whispered, and Armand could almost pretend to hear a shiver in his voice. "I can't undo Paris, and I can't bring back Venice, but snow falls outside. We could have winter, if we have nothing else."

"Winter, for once," he whispered, turning his face to nuzzle against Master's hand. "It's been nothing but summer since I was taken. Autumn tries to tease me with cold winds and beautiful colors, but all it does is kill everything around me and leave me frozen."

The hand at his jaw tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to tip his face upwards, auburn curls spilling down his back as Master turned him upwards for a kiss. Oh, how easily it would be to shove him away, or bite at his lip in a brutal, unenticing way, to claw and scratch and cry offense. But truthfully it was only his childish, stubborn pride that willed it; every other part of him immediately called for that touch. Soft, almost chaste, he let Master press their lips together, brief caresses, bloodless for now, Master's cold fingertips pressing into the softer skin of Armand's face.

Exhaling a warm and shaking breath, Armand let his lips part, an invitation Master siezed with delight, his tongue lapping against the plush curve of Armand's bottom lip, and then past. Master had fed, he could taste the faintest hint of blood on him, awakening a different kind of hunger. Armand reached upwards with his own small hands, sliding a hand to the back of Master's neck, below his hair, and he let Master give his own contented sigh before sinking a fang into Master's tongue.

Of course such a brief pain meant little to them, but the shock of it made him hiss, made him tighten his grip on Armand's jaw to a delightful ache.

"Tell me what you need, child," Master whispered, wet and warm against his lips, sending a quiver down Armand's lithe body. "What can I give you to settle your heart for the night?"

"My centuries back," said Armand with an undisguised cruelty, giving another nip with his tiny fangs. "In leua of that? ...take me to bed, then. Take me like you did when I was your mortal child. Bite me and bleed me and make me yours again. For the night. For the winter."

The groan that slipped through Master's lips was honey to Armand, and he lapped at the sound with contentment, letting out a mewl of his own as Marius slipped his hands underneath his arms to hoist him up. Immortal, unchanging, forever caught in adolescence, Armand fit perfectly on Master's hip, legs winding naturally around his waist and face nuzzleing against his pale neck. More kisses there, lips to marble as he was carried through the studio, past the sturdy doors to his private rooms, and finally to his bedroom.

Red and red and red.

Plush surrounded him as he hit the mattress, velvet and chenille and layers of coverings, and he let his breath escape him as he relaxed into its folds. Face gentle, eyes hungry, his sweatshirt riding up just enough to show a strip of his soft belly, he knew full well how enticing a boy he was, even to Master.

Especially to Master 

And indeed, Marius stood at the side of his bed, eyes absolutely luxuriating in the delights laid out before him. Armand smiled devilishly, arching his back just enough to press his hips up, twist his back, a mess of curls fanning around him.

"Master, undress me"

And he did so without reservation, pulling his boy up by the arms to lay more kisses against his pouting lips, unzipping his hooded sweatshirt and sliding it from his shoulders, tugging impatiently at the t shirt underneath. They broke apart just long enough to ease it from over his head, tossling his curls further and leaving his torso bare for Master's hands.

"So beautiful," Master sighed, his tongue darting out to trace over a blue vein at Armands throat. "Always more beautiful than I ever remember."

Armand basked in the worship, smiling with delight as Master's arms encircled his waist, holding him still, bowing him back just enough to arch his shoulders and neck. More kisses, and finally with the edge of fangs tracing over his collar bones, over his tender skin and suddenly he was Amadeo again, young and mortal and undulating beneath the Masters' touch, begging for the sting of teeth, do it do it do it-

"Do it, please, do it-" and he went limp as Master's wicked fangs broke his skin, taking that first intoxicating drink. He knotted a hand in Armand's hair to prevent him pulling away from the pain, but he needn't worry; Armand loved the pain, the piercing fangs and the lash of the whip, the strike of solid hands against his face, his thighs, his ass.

Slow and lazy Master lapped at his wound, taking only a few swallows before letting the wounds heal, only to make another mark immediately after, on the plush curve of Armand's chest, right near a nipple. 

"Master," he whispered, eyes fluttering against the sting, feeling the world tilt as he was eased back to bed, the fabric cool and inviting against his bare skin.

Marius worked the buttons of his jeans as he drank, taking his time for both, flicking open one button at a time as his tongue dipped into the fresh, raw bite wounds. Clawlike nails digging into his side was his sign to lift his hips, and he obeyed, letting Master slide his jeans and boxers down his legs. Sealing up his second set of wounds, Marius drew back, blood still on his lips, to survey with pleasure his beautiful prize.

Armand absolutely delighted in this, his heart pounding as he found himself on display, completely naked and vulnerable while Master remained fully clothed. He could pretend to be delicate again, pretend to be frail, pretend that his size was truly an indication of his strength. Letting himself fall softly into this fantasy, he sighed as Master reached forward, stroking his cheek again, down past kiss swollen lips, his jaw, to the thrum of his quickening pulse. The smallest noise left his throat as cold fingers brushed down his chest, pausing to circle a warm, pink nipple.

"Can you stay still for me, Amadeo, or should I restrain you for your own good?"

God, that was a favored game of theirs in Venice, tethering Amadeo's wrists together above his head, more silk ties behind his knees to pull his legs apart. No hiding, no shying away, no matter how many times he spent, how sensitive his little cock grew at each wave of pleasure, no being bashful. It taught him to soak up the attention, to crave it.

"...I'll stay still." Tonight though, he wanted to touch back when the time came. "I'll behave, Master."

His grin was absolutely predatory, fangs glinting in the room's lamplight.

"There's my sweet boy," he praised, moving his touch to the other nipple and giving it a sharp pinch, chuckling at the yelp Armand gave. "Now let me get a look at you, Amadeo, I've been without you so long."

In truth this was hardly the first time they had bloodshared in recent years. Passion and loneliness and fury alike pushed them together more than a few nights, which were often repeated but rarely spoken of. The few months since their last game was little to them...yet it did feel like too long right now, and he lay back gently, hands lax and fingers curled into his hair by his face as Master looked with his eyes as well as his hands. Another pinch to his nipple, harder this time, then soothed with the cool pads of his fingers, then his grip sliding up his shoulder to feel the tender underside of his arm, savoring the curve of ample flesh, the sparse tufts of red hair, up to the crook of his elbow and back down.

The bed dipped, arching his back for him as Master sat himself astride Armand's lap, corduroy brushing softly on the outside of his plump thighs. With both hands now Marius stroked him from his pulsing throat, down his chest to tease over his rounded belly, tickling as he passed. Armand was gravely ashamed for the light laughter that left his throat, but Master delighted in the sound, smiling wickedly and obviously pleased to be drawing such noises from his lover. Marius liked being in charge and controlling things. It was both his greatest asset and his deepest flaw.

Armand struggled to control his breathing as Master's hands reached the top of his thighs, his thumbs tracing over the seam between hip and leg as he shuffled himself around, slipping back to part Amadeos legs and settle himself between them. Immediately he let his hands smooth over the lush inside of his thighs, almost warm on the little dead thing, soft and pale and sensitive.

Armand had long stopped mourning how his body was no longer a sexual one; in all honesty it changed precious little for him. Being unable to orgasm was paltry compared to tasting blood, to the fire that spread through him on taking it, on giving it. Besides, his body was not a numb thing, he felt Master's fingers massaging the softer skin between his thighs, and he groaned wantonly, parting his legs further for him. It still felt good, even if he couldn't get hard. It was still intimate and tender and-!

A sharp hiss as Master's nails raked down the sensitive skin, clawing down nearly to his knees before replacing his nails with lips. Gently, slow, wet kisses trailed over the already healing grazes, becoming open mouthed and hungry. Armand reached down to grab hold of Master's hair, white gold and silky and so hard to keep hold of, but he managed, careful to not pull. He wasn't allowed to pull, and something in him wanted to be obedient right now, wanting those sweet smiles and delicious words of praise.

Master's kisses turned hungry as he nipped on the tendon. No fangs yet, no piercing skin, but enough pressure to have him writhing.

"I thought you said you could stay still for me?" Asked Master as he glanced up from between Armand's legs, his eyes devilish. Armand just nodded, winding his other fist onto the blanket beneath him.

"I can. I will," he swore, the end of his words fading into a gentle breath as Marius mouthed again, dragging the curve of his fangs higher. He kept his hands busy still, caressing his thighs, wandering up over his hip and belly, back down to tangle into his wiry red hair and skirt around the base of his cock. Master knew what he liked, always had, and Armand let out a most pleased noise when his palm stroked once, gently, over his cock. It didn't matter if the whole thing was useless, touch was touch, connection was connection. Maybe some of their kind couldn't be bothered by such touch, maybe Armand carried it over from his young age and insatiable human desires, didn't know didn't care, but he trembled feeling Marius' warm breath against his sack.

"Still so needy," Master taunted, his laughter slipping over his soft cock, tickling his hair, and Armand made himself stay still.

"You are who made me this way," he countered, and Master did not defend himself. Instead he lowered his face again, mouthing wet at Armand's sack, pressing his tongue up the seam before taking them into his mouth. Armand let out a delighted breath, letting go of his grip on Master's hair and instead combing through it gently, encouraging this delightful worship. Master sucked, cautious of his fangs. For now at least.

Finally releasing him, kissing his little pouch over and over, Master drew his attention up, dragging the tip of his tongue over his cock, finally letting Armand catch a glimpse of those long, narrow fangs.

"I was always so afraid to treat you like this as a mortal boy," he confessed, nearly in a growl, one fang resting at the tip of Armand's dick. "Too small, too delicate, I was afraid to hurt you, to ruin you-"

"Please ruin me," he begged,his toes curling into the covers, struggling to keep his legs open, and without any preamble Master gave him what he wanted, holding his organ firm as he pierced his fang into the tip, just below the slit.

Armand's cry echoed off the high ceiling and ductwork of the bedroom, pain blossoming between his legs from the bite, from Master tongueing at the wound and licking at the well of blood. Obedient, well behaved, cherished, Armand panted but stayed still, rewarded by Master's hands massaging over his hip and belly as he slowly sealed up the wound.

"My sweet, darling boy," he praised, and Armand felt himself so easily slipping into this role, feeling warm and floaty under the praise. He nodded his head slightly, letting his eyes drift closed for only a moment before being quickly jarred. Quicker than Armand could follow, Master looped his arms beneath Armand's thighs, lifting his ass just a little from the leg, thighs falling further open and bit, hard, between his legs, just beneath his sack.

Armand nearly broke. He loved that, he loved being bitten there, it hurt the worst there and he struggled to stay still. Master kept his fangs in longer than necessary, letting Armand feel penetrated, vulnerable, letting him savor the agony before taking his drink. Again he savored each dram of blood, moaning softly as he drank, letting his boy know how he enjoyed his blood.

"Master," he sighed wistfully, as Marius healed him again, and his only response was to leave a trail of kisses up Armand's small body, giving a quick bite to a nipple, another to his collar, before sealing his lips to Armand's. Blood still pooled in the lines of his lips, still coated the tongue invading his mouth, and Armand tasted himself, shivering at the sweet, metallic tang of it. He nippled lightly, playfully, at Master's lips, and he felt them curl into a grin against his own.

"My sweet boy," Master cooed, stroking a thumb over Armand's jaw, and Armand gave his own wicked smile back before he bit harshly into Master's bottom lip. His blood was so much sweeter, according to Armand, and he growled as Master startled and tried to pull away. Armand only let go when he wanted to, and then, it was to sink his fangs deep into Masters' waiting throat.

Another hiss of pain, followed by a shaking groan, and Armand tingled from both the blood surging into his mouth and the power such a thing held over his Master. Hands slipped beneath him, gathering him up and holding him tight to his throat till Armand was upright, sitting on Masters lap, bare flesh against his clothes, drinking deeply. Each swallow warmed him, enjoying the benefits of Masters hunt. He wanted to take his fill, he wanted the warmth and the pulse and-!

But Master was stronger. Always and forever, Master was stronger than Armand and was able to pull him away, blood spilling down his chin.

“Wasting food, child? Didn’t I raise you better than that?” he taunted, reaching his thumb up to wipe away a drip, pressing it into Armands mouth to make him clean his own mess, so like those nights in Venice, when he was old enough for a wet pleasure, making him clean himself, taste himself, on fingertips and tongues.

Armand pressed forward, wanting kissed, and Master welcomed it, wrapping his hands around his back, cupping his neck, his ass, anywhere he could touch, and Armand sighed into the embrace. He wanted to be touched everywhere, anywhere, and he pressed his body flush against his Masters, unable to feel enough of him. Another pain at his shoulder, another bite, Master pulling the blood back that Armand had stolen, and letting him, silently begging more, take more, leave me a weak and exhausted thing in your arms, make me remember the weightlessness of spending, how you kissed me through each one-!

Nails dug into his hip, leaving dents, then punctures, the blood curving in hot streams down his leg, and Armand whimpered at each little blossom of pain, at the sight of Marius raising his fingers to his own mouth to lick away the treat, red and red and red, always those glittering drops, ruby pomegranate seeds, juicy and bursting over his tongue. Another bite to Masters lip, another bite to his tongue, both bleeding into one another's mouth, leaving streaks across Armand’s cheek, down his neck, blood kisses to his throat that Master licked clean with obsessive diligence.

High and buzzing, Armand wrestled to pull away, to press his arms between them, and whispered out a plea;

“Leave it,” he said hoarsely, letting his fingers reach up to feel the hot, wet blood staining his collar bone. “Leave a little. Mark me, leave me smelling like your blood.”

What a heartbreaking sound Marius let out leaning his brow heavily to his child’s shoulder.

“I use to leave you bruised,” he said, and Armand could hear the smirk in his voice, and he nodded, petting through his long hair.

“You did, throat to ankles I would have your marks on me. Made it difficult to bathe with the other boys sometimes, but they never asked, not even the little one's. Oh, the looks Riccardo gave me, such wicked, knowing eyes. He would tease me for it, you know. Papa’s boy, he called me, the little mistress, Magdalene. Masters little pet. And I loved each one.”

Tighter he held himself to Master, feeling their hearts slow.

“You can’t bruise me now, not for long, so leave the blood to dry. Let the others know what you do to me.”

Before Marius could make another comment, be it something filthy or something with deep offense, Armand disentangled himself from his lover, quickly grabbing for his sweatshirt, just long enough to cover his shame, and scampered barefoot back to the studio. Marius followed, not wanting, it seemed, to be apart from his lover, and Armand had to admire how rumbled and disheveled he looked, his hair mussed from Armand’s own hands.

Standing at the long table, Armand brought up his sketchpad again, picking up his charcoal as well, and hunched over it for a moment, adding a few quick, calculated strokes, and finally he let Marius look over his shoulder to see the work of his apprentice.

“...harsh,” was all he said, and Armand nodded. It was, indeed, a harsh portrait, all heavy lines and sharp angles, shadows too intense for the round lighted studio, but it was perfect. Paint over his clothes, blood at his collar, eyes piercing and judging and offering such a promise of salvation, w wicked home with broken windows and locked doors.

“I promised not to make of you an icon, did I not?” Armand said lightly, as he tore the page from its ring binding.

“And you did not,” Master conceded, “but you’ve made of me an idol.”

Armand did not disagree. He stepped easily around the table, stopping near a chaise lounge and low shelf, grabbing a lighter from aside a collection of candles, and stood himself at the sink. After a few clicks, he got the lighter to take flame, and held the drawing above it, the fire licking quickly at the paper.

“Are you in the habit of burning artwork now? Should I alert the Talamaska?”

Armand shook his tangled curls, letting the fire envelope his fingers, the portrait falling to ash in the stainless basin.

“What else does one do with a gift of devotion, my living lord, but offer it up in sacrificial flames?”

“Is this for a blessed year, my little devotee, or just to make it through the winter?”

And standing there in the dying firelight, red and red and red, Armand grinned at the mix of fear and desire playing across Masters face, knowing, still, that Marius was his slave.


End file.
